A few weeks ago, I wrote about the year when I thought I had come of age. I was fifteen years old and a boarding student at St Kieran’s College, still under the care of the priests.

In that story, I wrote that I asked a girl to do a slow dance with me and that she agreed. Father O’Toole put an abrupt stop to that, saying I had broken the distance rules while dancing. I also saw him dragging another boy from the dance floor because his hair was too long. Later, as a small act of rebellion, I let my own hair grow a little.

That same summer, I attended French classes in town, got a job in a local hotel, and saved enough money to buy my first electric guitar. I also began going to dances in town, where there were no priests to be seen at the edge of the floor watching us. I thought I had crossed the line into the world of adults.

Until I went to Dublin, at any rate.

Before I talk about Dublin, however, I have something to confess here.

I told you about my first dance when I was fifteen years old.

It was a lie.

It was not me who got a tap on the shoulder from Father O’Toole that night. It was one of my friends. I saw it happening. I remember the priest’s face, the girl taking a step back, and the shame of the whole thing. I remember wishing that I myself had the courage to do the same thing.

But I had no courage then.

No courage at all.

My first dance came later, when I was sixteen years old and a day student. And it did not happen as you might think.

I found a bottle of brandy at home in my father’s wardrobe. Dad kept it for special occasions, mostly Uncle John’s visits. The two of them would sit by the fire, each with a small glass of brandy, and talk about the old days.

I found another use for it.

Before a dance, I would pour myself a good glass, drink it quickly, and then fill the bottle back up again with water. I hoped my father would not notice it.

The alcohol would not hit me quickly. I would be inside the dance hall before it began to work on me. Then my shyness would disappear. I could talk. I could smile. I could dance.

I was sixteen years old when I danced with a girl for the first time.

I was drunk.

I have little memory of it now, apart from a few blurred flashes of us on the dance floor. I do not even remember who the girl was.

One night before a dance, a friend of mine came up with an idea that we thought was excellent. He knew where we could get vodka. He had a simple plan. We would have a few drinks beforehand to get ourselves right for the dance.

I did not let on that I was already put right, and I agreed at once.

We hid in the shadow of a doorway on Chapel Lane. We felt daring and grown up. We had the bottle. We had no glasses, no mixers, and no sense. We drank straight from the bottle, quickly and hard.

I drank more than my friend. Much more.

At first, we were fine. Then brave. Then invincible.

After that, nothing.

I do not know what happened to my friend that night. I have no memory of leaving Chapel Lane. I have no memory of going home. The next thing I remember, I was waking in my own bed the following day, so sick that I could not lift my head.

I was sick for three days.

Nowadays, they would say it was alcohol poisoning. At the time, there was nothing to do but suffer. I lay there sweating, retching, and cursing everything that had happened. There was a foul taste in my mouth. My stomach turned at the smell of food. The light hurt my eyes.

To this day, I do not know who found me or who made the phone call that brought me home.

At last, when I was ready to face my parents, they asked me what had happened. I told them the truth. I had drunk vodka with a friend to get the courage to go dancing.

I thought they would keep me at home for the rest of my life. Instead, they let it pass. They must have thought I had already received my punishment.

St Kieran’s College gave generations of priests to the wider world, and some of the best hurlers in the country as well. But it did not prepare boys like me for dance halls, drink, girls, or the confusion that comes with growing up.

The only thing I knew for certain, as I lay in bed recovering after that night on Chapel Lane, was that something had changed in me forever. I was in a place I had never been before.

I had crossed the Rubicon.

Then came Dublin.